The older I get the more I question whether I have ever truly loved someone.
A year ago, I would have said I did. I stumbled upon this intoxicating feeling of being found. Seen even. ACCEPTED. I saw him as my savior, rescuing me from my demons lurking in the shadows.
It was beautiful the way he looked at me, all knowing. It threw me to my knees. He knelt with me, kissing every indiscretion and ugliness. Praying this would never go away, I willingly surrendered my soul as he sensually sang his love for me.
With each refrain, I found myself converted. Obliviously, giving away my pearls to swine.
Like with every mere mortal, deception is too hard to keep hidden. Shattered with the reality of his facade, all that surrounded me were the demons I was running from.
My fears of his sins confirmed I had been rejected in my most vulnerable state, leaving me with nothing but shame.
A year later, I sometimes think of him and his silver tongue. I think of the flowery lyrics he lured me with and one line. This one line that led me like a lamb to the slaughter, "I would watch grass grow with you, Elisa."
I no longer question why I followed him, because I know.
His soul was broken like mine, just in different places. And as we held each other for redemption, his jagged edges left me bleeding.
Did I ever really love him?
That's the thing with false gods and reckless believers; you love what you think you know: deliverance.
Did I ever really love any of them? Or, did I love the promise of Heaven?